


Lonely Blue

by zjofierose



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Everyone Needs A Hug, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:56:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10030463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Roger, after Mimi's death, is different. Mark deals with it the only way he knows how; by taking it one day at a time, never faltering in his devotion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, good grief, of all the fandoms I never thought I'd write for... RENT came out when I was in high school, and I had a friend who SUPER loved it, and she got me into it, and I loved it dearly too. But, this was before I had things like "home internet" or knew about "fandom", so, I loved it, but didn't do anything other than obsessively listen to the soundtrack. Flash forward about 18 or so years (jfc), and some friends and I went to see the 20th anniversary tour (GO SEE IT, IT'S SO GOOD), and I left with a desire a) for their Maureen, omg, and b) to read some Mark/Roger. *sigh* Then, of course, I couldn't get it out of my system, so, I wrote this.
> 
> It's probably no more graphic or upsetting than anything you'd expect from RENT fic, which is to say there are mentions of HIV/AIDS, drug use, swearing, death, the mention of previous characters' suicide, sex, etc etc. The most triggery stuff is probably the ED mentions, but if you're squeamish, do know that there are some needle mentions in here. 
> 
> Many thanks as always to @the_deep_magic for the quick once-over. <3

Roger after Mimi’s death is different than any Roger Mark’s seen before. There’s the initial shock, or… maybe shock isn’t the right word, it’s not like she was hit by a car, not like they didn’t all see it coming. But still, the abrupt and total absence of a person you love is always a shock on some level, Mark thinks. Startling in its completeness, its irreversibility. So, there’s that, the shock, which lasts for a week or two. And then… and then Roger settles in to grieve. 

Mark had been braced for the way things were after April: drugs, mania, despondency. Wild nights, days without sleep ending in drunken stupors. Near overdoses. But this… this is new. Different. This is not the Roger Mark knows, not anything like him, this is some… creature, Mark thinks, a changeling, an imitation, a… he doesn’t know what it is, but it’s sure as shit not his friend.

In short, Roger transforms into a functional adult. A silent, unsmiling, grey-shirted adult who haunts their apartment in a regular routine, who takes his AZT uncomplainingly on an exact schedule, who does the dishes and cleans their bathroom and almost never speaks.

Roger gets a job as a desk clerk at a hotel. He wears button-front shirts and his one pair of dress shoes to work, leaving the apartment at 7:30 in the morning and returning at 5 pm, Monday through Saturday. When he gets home, he makes himself a can of soup or a cup of ramen, plays scales on his guitar for an hour or two, then shuts the door to his room and doesn’t come out till morning. Mark’s not sure what he’s doing in there - sleeping for eleven hours? Doing yoga? Staring silently at the wall? Mark can’t tell. 

At first, Mark thinks this is temporary. Maybe this is Roger’s version of a breakdown; where everyone else would be indulging in dramatics, Roger’s already so dramatic that he can only resort to some facsimile of respectability to make a point. He gives it two weeks, tops, and focuses on how nice it is to remember that the tile in the bathroom is white, not yellow. 

\--

After a month, Mark’s getting a little unnerved. Roger shows no change, and you could set a watch by his clockwork progression through the days. 

At six weeks he meets Collins at the Life Cafe. It makes him twitchy to leave Roger home alone; he’s honestly never really gotten over seeing April in their bathroom (which he feels fine about, because Christ, how DO you get over that?), and though he’s not actively worried about Roger being suicidal, he doesn’t like ruling things out. It seems like tempting fate to say or think that Roger would never… so, they meet for lunch, while Roger is safely at work. 

“How’s he hanging in there?” Collins asks sympathetically, dumping sugar into his coffee.

“I don’t know,” Mark says, pushing his eggs carefully around his plate. He likes eggs, but he has to not think about what they are when he’s putting them in his mouth. “It’s fucking weird. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Collins nods. He’s stopped by a few times, seen the respectable zombie of Roger moving silently around the loft. 

“Yeah,” he says, and spreads his wide hands. “How long was he fucked up after April? Was it six months?”

“Kinda?” Mark squints, remembering. “The worst of it was six months. Then he got clean, and was just depressed. But that wasn’t just about her, that was also finding out his status.”

Collins winces, pulls a hand across his chin.  “I hate to say it because it’s shitty as hell, but, Mimi isn’t his first terrible loss; that may make it easier for him to get through. He’s been here before.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Mark puts down his fork and fiddles with the salt shaker instead. “He hasn’t. This isn’t the same. This is… God, I don’t know  _ what  _ this is.”

“Maybe it’s genuine.” Collins shrugs, “Maybe losing Mimi made him truly realize that he wants to change, wants to be a responsible human being?”

“No,” Mark shakes his head emphatically. “This isn’t Roger. He’s responsible, when he’s clean, when he’s feeling good, you’ve seen him. But this, right now… it’s like he’s not in there anymore. It’s Roger’s body, but there’s no one home.”

Collins reaches over and pats Mark’s hand. It startles him, and Mark realizes, suddenly, how long it’s been since he touched someone. He’s nearly overcome with the urge to run around the table and snuggle up next to Collins, just to feel the presence of another body against his.

He doesn’t. Collins would let him, certainly, might even encourage it, but it would probably be cruel for both of them; a taste of what they don’t have anymore. Better to let them both carry on in their reserve; safer than getting too close. 

“Keep me updated?” Collins is asking, and Mark nods, pulling his hand away to reach for his coat. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his uneaten eggs to the side and slipping his arms into the sleeves, “yeah, I will.”

\--

He’s not really sure when he loses his appetite. Sometime in the spring, maybe, when the leaves are on the trees, the birds are singing, the flowers are budding, when Mimi’s been gone for three months, Angel for nearly eighteen, and April for just over two years. At some point, Mark thinks, he’s going to run out of friends to tell time by. 

It gets hot early that year, and the heat always makes him lethargic. It also makes the trash from the alley smell especially ripe, and the scent permeates their building, along with the persistent aroma of the unwashed bodies all around them. He’s always been a bit of a delicate flower, to hear Maureen tell it anyway, and he just can’t really bring himself to choke through more than a bowl of cereal in the morning when everything’s still cool from overnight. Lunch turns his stomach, and the couple of times he manages to force down a dinner at the Life Cafe when they all (those who are left) go out, he throws it up later, too hot and icky feeling to keep it inside his body. He feels lighter after, less slow and thick.

It’s fine. His arms get skinnier, he guesses, which looks weird, but he never liked short sleeves anyway. 

He takes to talking to Roger endlessly, pretending not to notice that Roger doesn’t listen, doesn’t respond except in monosyllables to direct questions. He tells him about his day, about the things he’s filmed. He gets a book on music theory, teaches himself to identify the different scales Roger plays, chromatic, lydian, pentatonic, and then he talks about those. 

He talks himself hoarse in May, has to take a week off to nurse his throat, and afterward, it just feels so dumb he doesn’t start up again. He doesn’t know if Roger misses it.

\--

Joanne’s face is sympathetic. “How are you doing?” she asks, looking seriously at Mark over her low-fat half-caff caramel latte.

“Eh.” Mark shrugs. “I mean, it’s kinda lonely. Roger...took up a lot of space. Especially with Mimi around.”

“Fighting, fucking…” Joanne laughs, and Mark smiles in spite of himself. 

“Fight-fucking,” he says, and Joanne snickers.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Joanne says, rolling her eyes, “not after more than a year with Maureen…”

Mark snorts. “What do you mean? Maureen’s so calm, so stable.”

Joanne’s chuckle is addictive. The sound of it crawls into his chest and loosens the clutch of his ribs around his heart just a little. 

“God. How does anyone ever deal with her?” Joanne gets out finally, shaking her head. It’s not a serious question, so Mark just shakes his head and sips his coffee. “You poor thing,” she says finally, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “being in love with both of them. You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘masochist’,” Mark says drily, lifting his mug. “To S and M!” he declares, and Joanne clinks her coffee to his. 

“Seriously, though, Mark,” Joanne says, her eyes narrowing. “Have you ever loved someone who was good for you?”

Joanne’s a real person, and a real friend, so he does her the courtesy of thinking it over. 

“First of all,” he begins, “Roger and Maureen aren’t that bad.” Joanne starts to open her mouth, but he holds up a hand. “She’s different with you. I mean, yes, she walked all over me, and cheated on me, and…” he can see Joanne’s eyebrow raising, and presses on, “and we weren’t good as a  _ couple _ , but before that we were friends, and that was fine. She does, or did, care about me, and I cared about her.” He shrugs. “Roger… I’ve known Roger a long time. We’ve always been close. He’s a good guy, he’s just had a lot of shit to deal with, what with April, and then his status, and now Mimi…” Mark shakes his head. “You didn’t know him before. He’s always looked out for me, taken care of me, just like I do for him.”

Joanne looks skeptical. “The question stands, though, Mark- even if I agree that Maureen does still care about you, and even if I give you a pass on Roger on account of extenuating circumstances- have you ever been in love with someone who loved you back, and acted like it?”

Mark sets his coffee down, winding his hands together. “I don’t… no, I mean, I guess not.” Joanne’s got her sympathetic face on again, so he looks away. “I mean… I don’t think I really… fall for people as much as everyone else does.” He gestures haphazardly around him. “It seems like everyone else is always just… ready to fuck, or fall in love with basically anyone at the drop of a hat. I don’t… I’m not like that,” he finishes quietly.

Joanne looks curious now, and he’s torn between embarrassment and excitement at having someone’s undivided attention. 

“Do you not like to fuck people you’re not in love with?” she asks, her tone questioning, but without any hint of censure.

“No, not really.” He shoves a hand into his hair, then plays with his scarf ends. “I don’t… I don’t know. I mean, I can see, objectively, if someone is hot. Mimi, for instance. I know, in my mind, that she’s… she was… really fucking sexy. But… I don’t care? I don’t want to do anything about it.” He pauses, fiddles with a spoon. “I mean, I like sex. And I’ve done it a few times with people I wasn’t... just to see, but I didn’t really like it.”

“But with Roger and Maureen…” Joanne prompts. 

“We were friends first.” He sighs.”Then I fell for them, for all of them, minds, bodies, everything.”

“Does Roger know?”

Mark shifts uncomfortably. “Does he know that I love him? Sure. He loves me, too.”

“No,” Joanne says gently, “does he know that you’re  _ in  _ love with him?”

“It’s never come up,” he says finally, accidentally dipping a scarf end into the dregs of his coffee. 

“You should tell him,” she says decisively, “it might be what he needs to snap out of it.”

“No,” Mark shakes his head, “no. It hasn’t been long enough with Mimi gone. And I don’t want to make him think he owes me anything, that I’m waiting around for him. That’s not how it is. We’re friends. That’s the most important thing.”

“Oh, honey.” Joanne’s smile is sad, but she doesn’t touch him, and he’s grateful. He’s suddenly not sure he could stand it. “Don’t make yourself a martyr to the cause, ok? You deserve good things, too.”

\--

Roger gets sick for a bit in August, and Mark steals his orange hospital jello, then loses it in the bathroom after watching them try to find a vein in Roger’s arm that’ll take an IV. Roger recovers quickly, all things considered, and Mark helps him carefully up the stairs, pausing at every landing so they can both catch their breath.

They make it to the loft, and Mark gets Roger settled in his bed, making sure he’s comfortable. He hasn’t been inside this room in months, and it’s almost creepy how little it’s changed. Laundry in a pile in the corner, same faded posters on the wall. Roger shuffles onto the bed, which gives a familiar groan as it accepts his weight. 

“Wait here,” Mark says, reveling in the closeness he’s had since Roger’s been sick. He hasn’t spent all of every single day with him while he was in the hospital, but… nearly. “I’ll get you some water.”

Roger nods faintly, and Mark stands up to go fill a glass, and suddenly everything’s spinning, and he’s very grateful he hasn’t eaten yet today, because he thinks if he had, he’d be sick. He holds very still until the black spots fade from his vision, breathes carefully through his nose, and things stabilize, even if there are still some bright-colored tracers in the edge of his sight. Roger’s already curled on his side, facing away from the door, and doesn’t see the hand Mark has to rest on the wall to steady himself.

He makes it halfway to the sink before the black spots return, and this time there’s nothing to brace himself against; he’s in the empty middle of the room, and he feels the world tilt on its axis as the roaring in his ears drowns out the sound he makes when he hits the floor. 

He comes around to Roger shaking him, calling his name.  _ Water _ , he thinks, _ I was getting him water.  _ His eyes open, and Roger’s right there, staring at him with more emotion than Mark’s seen since Mimi died, his face pinched and pale.

‘M alright,” he gets out, and struggles to sit up. He doesn’t think to stop him until it’s too late and Roger’s hand is closing around Mark’s arm, his thumb and middle finger nearly three quarters of the way to meeting in spite of Mark’s ever-present sweater. Roger’s face, unfrozen now, shifts through surprise, dismay, and anger in the space of seconds, and without a word he scoops Mark up under the armpits and knees and carries him into his room, Mark protesting all the way.

“You  _ idiot _ ,” Mark hisses as he’s dropped unceremoniously on the bed, “you just got out of the hospital, what the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing carrying me around.” He waves his arms, indicating the whole of Roger’s person and the absurdity he just inflicted on Mark and the universe in general. “Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , Roger, do you  _ want  _ to go back there? What do you think a herniated disc is going to  _ do  _ to you?”

Roger just crosses his arms and stares him down until he’s finished. 

“Mark,” he says finally, “show me.”

“Show you what?” Mark asks nervously, his voice shaky and sharp. “Are we five? I’m not going to show you mine so you can show me yours.”

Anger traces its way across Roger’s face again, and he shakes his head, hard. 

“ _ How could I have been so blind _ ,” he mutters, but Mark thinks that it’s not directed at him, it’s just a statement, for the air, for the ceiling, for the walls. 

“I’m fine,” Mark says, “I’m  _ fine _ , Roger, it’s nothing…”

Roger reaches out to him with a sharp motion, kneeling on the bed over Mark’s hips and pinning him effortlessly, but his touch as he pulls Mark’s shirt over his head is careful, even as Mark struggles and squirms beneath him.

“There,” Mark says defiantly, crossing his arms across his bare chest. He can feel his hair sticking up all over his head, his nipples hard from the light breeze moving through the room. “See? I was always a skinny little shit.”

Roger’s face hurts to look at. “Mark…,” he says, and stops, his mouth opening and then closing again like he doesn’t have words. Maybe he’s swallowed them, Mark thinks, or forgotten them all in his seven months of self-imposed silence. “Mark,” he says again, and it’s a statement of something, Mark couldn’t say what, but Roger reaches out and puts his hands wordlessly on Mark’s body.

It’s the most tender examination Mark’s ever had, shocking in its thoroughness and care. They’ve touched a thousand, a million times in the years they’ve known each other, a whole universe of friendly pats, grumpy shoulder punches, drunken hugs, but nothing, ever, like this. Mark can barely breathe as Roger runs his callused fingers from the top of Mark’s pale blond head to his neck to his shoulders, taking Mark’s chin in his hand and tipping his head side to side oh-so-carefully, watching the shapes the tendons make as they run from his collarbones to the base of his skull. He traces his hands over Mark’s arms, pressing their palms together and holding on as he brings his head down to rest on Mark’s bare chest. 

At some point, Mark begins to cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks as Roger unbuttons Mark’s pants and pulls them off, leaving his concave belly and his flaccid dick bare to the late-morning sun. Mark can’t bear to look at himself, knows how pale he is, how disgustingly thin he’s become. His joints are knobby, his translucent skin traced with blue-green veins, and he didn’t mean to be like this, it just happened while he was distracted, while was worrying about other things, other people. Roger’s hands on him are devastating, warm and firm and gentle, cupping his knees, his ankles, his feet. 

“You’re cold,” Roger says finally, running a finger over the goosebumps on Mark’s inner thigh. 

Mark shrugs. “Always,” he says, forcing his voice not to crack. 

Roger just nods, hands busily stripping off his clothes. Mark’s seen him naked before, but not in a long time. Not since before Mimi, he thinks. Roger’s as attractive as always, if a little thinner, but he’s still got muscle tone, still has his line of light brown hair running from his navel to his crotch, still has that stupid tattoo on his hip. 

He slips into bed next to Mark, yanking the blankets up over them both and getting his arms around Mark, pulling him flush against Roger’s warm chest. Mark sighs in relief at the feeling of heat surrounding him, lets his eyes close as Roger’s hands chafe gently at his arms, his legs, and Roger buries his face in Mark’s hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Mark whispers, and he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, other than the look Roger couldn’t stop giving him, like he was watching the world end before his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Roger’s hands move over him, making him shiver again against the heat of Roger’s body. Mark has no idea what they’re doing, what’s happening, but he’s too selfish, he’s missed Roger too much, to want to question it and risk getting shut out again.

“Don’t…” Roger starts, then pauses, pushing his thigh between Mark’s bony knees, one arm wrapped all the way around Mark’s shoulders, and the other across Mark’s belly, hand curled around the jut of Mark’s hip. “Don’t ever…”, he tries again, his mouth against the bottom of Mark’s neck, “don’t ever take yourself away from me,” he says finally, his fingers digging in. “I can’t… without you… I…”

“I’m sorry,” Mark whispers again, feeling small and ashamed. He’s supposed to be the strong one. What the fuck happened to him? It wasn’t like it was  _ his  _ girlfriend who had died,  _ his  _ body failing him cell by cell. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” Roger says harshly, “No.  _ I’m  _ sorry. This is  _ my  _ fault.” His voice catches, but he plows on. “I’ve ignored you, I’ve shut you out. I didn’t even look to see what I was doing to you.”

Mark twists and wriggles until he’s turned around in Roger’s grip, heads so close on the pillow he’s going cross-eyed trying to see Roger’s face. 

“How about,” Mark says, leaning his head back to try and watch Roger’s expression, “we skip blame, and just focus on getting you better.”

Roger scowls. “Only if you get better, too.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “I’m not…” Roger sets his hands on Mark’s waist, comes far too close to encircling it, and raises an eyebrow. “Alright, fine. Both of us.” He shivers, the space between them allowing in cooler air, and Roger pulls him up close again, which presses his erection into Roger’s, and well, Mark thinks, this is new. He reaches without thinking, pulling Roger’s face to him and presses their mouths together as Roger’s limbs wrap around him. It’s as good as he’d always imagined, Roger’s mouth hot, his hands large and strong where they’re cupping Mark’s ass. 

“Can I,” Roger bites out, pulling one of Mark’s legs up and over his hip and curving his fingers around Mark’s dick, and Mark just moans open-mouthed, figures that’s clear enough. He gets a grip on Roger’s shoulders and hangs on, deciding to be embarrassed about how strongly he responds later, because what Roger is doing with his fingers is too much for him to care about anything else right now. 

“That’s it,” Roger croons in his ear, one hand cradling Mark’s head against his shoulder while the other pulls him off with devastating prowess, “God, you’re so sensitive, when’s the last time you even…”.

“Maureen,” Mark manages, finding the presence of mind to stroke a hand down Roger’s chest to pinch at a nipple, and Roger’s hand goes hard on him at the word. 

“No one since?” he breathes, and Mark shakes his head. “Didn’t want… anyone else…” Mark pants, and Roger’s hand slows, making Mark groan with anticipation. 

“You want this, though?” Roger’s voice betrays a hint of anxiety, and Mark drags him into a fierce kiss. 

“Always,” he says fervently, “I will  _ always  _ want this, with you.”

“Good,” Roger says, his voice low and rough, and his hand rededicates itself to Mark’s pleasure, pulling with just the right amount of speed and pressure that Mark’s body stiffens, his head falling back as he spills onto Roger’s hand and thighs. 

“God,  _ Roger _ ,” Mark breathes after a moment, his hand fumbling lower, “let me…”

“No,” Roger says, turning his hips away, “wait, don’t…,” he pulls back, and Mark panics for a long second as Roger leans over the side of his mattress before rolling onto his back and taking Mark’s hand in his. “Only if you want, though,” Roger says, his voice unsteady. Mark curls into his side and reaches across to take hold of him, feeling Roger’s body clench alongside his own. “It’s safe like this,” Roger grits out, and Mark runs his hand up and down Roger’s condom-wrapped dick. 

“I know,” Mark says, “you think I didn’t do all that research when you found out? This is fine. It’d be fine without it, too, it’s just my hand, but..”

“ _ No _ ,” Roger says, “no,” and Mark nods against his shoulder in acceptance, feeling Roger’s hand stroke along his side as he explores the feeling of Roger’s cock. He’s actually never been with a man before, but it’s basically the same as getting himself off so far, just a little different angle. Roger’s thicker than he is, but about the same length, and seems perfectly fine with the motions that Mark’s using so far. He’s so absorbed in observing that it almost takes him by surprise when Roger’s hips thrust and stutter, his body giving over to one long groan. Mark strokes him through it, letting go when Roger finally takes his hand away and climbs out of bed to dispose of the condom. Mark hears him go into the bathroom and wash his hands, dozing as he waits for Roger to return. 

Roger climbs back in without fanfare, and yanks Mark back up against him, and Mark goes willingly where he’s put, drowsy and content. He’s never let himself imagine this far, never wanted to dwell on what could be.

If he had, it couldn’t have lived up to the reality, he thinks, and slides his fingers into Roger’s hand where it rests against his chest.


End file.
